


And Yes, I Think of You

by underscoredom



Series: Sherlock100 [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sunrises, Sunsets, psuedo death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-14
Updated: 2011-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:47:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underscoredom/pseuds/underscoredom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In two separate parts of the world stand two people thinking of different things</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Yes, I Think of You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for sherlock100, for the prompt Writer's Choice and my choice prompt is hope. :D Cross posted! Also, this is is beta-d by the lovely Lisa. Lisa, thank you for helping me even if it was out of the way and everything :3

The sun set and rose.  
   
It set and rose as though inhaling and exhaling; breathing in synch with the people who ran their lives by its circadian rhythms. In two parts of the world, people witness the sun do the same thing differently.  
   
In two separate parts of the world stand two people thinking of different things that end with the same conclusion.  
   
On one hand, we have John Watson. He was never small—Sherlock was just so bloody tall—but today he felt it. He stood alone in a sea of death, tombstones marking those who jumped to face death and never resurfaced. Here, he couldn't breathe.  
   
He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned against his cane. He hardly ever used his cane; even the occasional occurrence of the limp hadn’t required him to use it. However, he found himself needing the additional support today.  
   
It was a year later; it still hurt. The ear splitting explosion, the rubble that had knocked into the side of his head as he dashed to push them both in the pool, the sting of water in his nose, Moriarty's grin—  
   
Waking up and being informed that it was—  
   
John took a shuddery breath. It still hurt.  
   
The most he had was this tombstone. Though it was only one amongst many here, it was special. Special because it's the only one marked with Sherlock's name. Below, in neat script, his birth date. No death date. Mycroft was adamant about that and John hadn't found the strength to argue.  
   
Earlier, at home, he had stared at the calendar, the papers with its daily reports of crime and his mobile, which never rang with ridiculous text messages anymore, and pushed the hope at the very back of his metaphorical closet along with the nightmares of his past.  
   
He watched the sun set, watched the shadow consume the light. Sherlock loved sunsets, he remembered. His mind wandered back to a time when he'd return to an empty flat, much earlier than he expected. It hadn't worried him until Mrs. Hudson asked where Sherlock was and John realized Sherlock hadn't texted him (a deal they had made-- if Sherlock left, he had to let John know why, just so he'd know how much worrying he'd had to do. In return, John did the groceries). When he tried to call, Sherlock's mobile rang from somewhere in the kitchen. He'd nearly had a panic attack (kidnap? Concussion? Poison? He better be at Bart's, dissecting some unfortunate dead bloke!) when evening settled and Sherlock padded down from the upstairs.  
   
John had stared at him and all Sherlock had done was raise an eyebrow at him.  
   
"You couldn't have been hiding in my room the entire time. I checked, unless you were hiding under the floorboards. Even then, we'd have heard you moving in between the plywood and you couldn't have fit." Sherlock had rolled his eyes.  
   
"Very good John. I really wouldn't have fit." Pause. Sherlock considered what John had said. "You were looking for me?"  
   
"Yes, you git. You weren't here; you didn't text! Mrs. Hudson was this close—" John held up his fingers, creating a miniscule, nearly non-existent space between his thumb and index finger. "—to calling Mycroft. Do—"  
   
"Why would you look for me?"  
   
Sherlock had sounded genuinely curious. John opened and closed his mouth, caught off guard by the question. Because—because... how was he going to even begin? John dropped on the sofa, weighed down by the significance of the question.  
   
"C'mere," he said, patting the space next to him. Sherlock settled to stand in front of him. John had rolled his eyes and pulled him down.  
   
"Look. What you do, it's brilliant and exciting, but it's dangerous." He held up his hand as Sherlock opened his mouth. "I know, obvious. Dull. But it's not dull for Mrs. Hudson. It's not dull for me. I don't like knowing that you could be out there and god knows what could be happening to you and—"  
   
"I was on the rooftop," Sherlock cut in John's rambling. John blinked.  
   
"Oh."  
   
John rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly embarrassed for having worried so much. Not to mention stupid for not thinking of that. He coughed.  
   
"Contemplating the severity of various head injuries after jumping off a building?" he guessed.  
   
Sherlock laughed.  
   
"No, although, thank you for the suggestion. I was watching the sun set." Sherlock was looking out the window, as though he could still see traces of the sun.  
   
"Oh."  
   
Sherlock turned to face him again. Sad but fond, John remembered that that's what Sherlock's face had looked like then. He remembered because he'd been about to relate a joke about the solar system but he stopped. It had hit him that that was the one time he'd seen Sherlock like that.  
   
"Yes, oh. My father—" but this time, he paused, frowned. He opened his mouth but said nothing. Closed it quickly. John got what he was struggling with.  
   
" 's okay. You don't have to tell me," John said. He stood up, holding out his hand. Sherlock took it, thanking him with his eyes and with an invitation to dine out.  
   
The sun was completely gone now. Any warmth it had spread was replaced by the chilly wind. John sighed, crouched on the tombstone in front of him.  
   
"See you soon," he murmured, caressing the capitalized S with his hand, before standing up to leave.  
   
   
\-----  
   
   
On the other hand, all the way across the globe, there was Sherlock Holmes. He had never been dead and soon, he won't be known as that anymore. He hoped against hope that John can find it in his heart to forgive him.  
   
It's been a year and it still hurt. The ear splitting explosion, stumbling amongst the falling pieces of concrete, his back slamming against the water, Moriarty being whisked away by his men--  
   
Realizing that, if he wanted to capture Moriarty, he'd have to cut himself off from John, John who would have no idea that—  
   
Sherlock bit his lower lip, the small pain bringing him back to the present. It still hurt.  
   
The city was just about stirring. Somewhere in the distance, he heard a rooster crowing. The skies were still distinctly grey, but soon the sun would rise and his flight back home would be leaving six hours after that. He had time. (A part of him wished he didn't and that his flight would leave already.)  
   
Sunrises were—are—John's favorite.  
   
There were days when he hated them. These usually happened when they were coming home from a case. Most of their cases required them to be out at late hours and John, despite informing him that he would be staying in that night, would usually end up accompanying him (it helped that Sherlock was not above playing the 'could be dangerous' card). Late nights usually ended just at the edge when the sun was about to rise. Whenever they stepped out of the cab, about to head inside the flat, and John would catch a glimpse of the rising sun. He'd curse, complain he'd never be able to go to work being tired, and phoned Sarah who was quite understanding (according to John. A lie. Sarah was peeved but, knowing that what he did was 'for the common good', could not do anything).  
   
But the days when John loved them were days Sherlock loved them too. Sherlock would wake up momentarily to John rummaging in their kitchen, looking for something he could cook, looking for the kettle, washing and rewashing it in case there were still remnants from his last experiment. He'd be humming songs that were playing from Mrs. Hudson's radio below, pieces he'd play when he was a child, pieces Sherlock had been playing at three in the morning. John always seemed to sense Sherlock waking up because he'd sit beside him, brush his hair back and tell him to go back to sleep.  
   
"Go back to sleep; the world's just waking up," he'd say, looking out their window before looking back at him with a small smile. Moments like these, Sherlock would close his eyes and indulge himself with John's fingers carding through his hair as the first trickles of sunlight entered their flat.  
   
The sun fully rose, washing Sherlock with hope. The warmth seeping into his bones gave him courage. He had always associated John with warmth, and its presence felt like a gentle prod forward. Like John's way of saying 'I miss you, so come home.' He could never deny his blogger.  
   
"I'll see you soon."


End file.
